


Birds of a Feather

by Carmarthen Juvenilia (Carmarthen)



Series: Idiograph [4]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl (2003)
Genre: M/M, Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:22:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen%20Juvenilia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill and Jack, reunited.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birds of a Feather

**Author's Note:**

> Not consistent with post- _Curse of the Black Pearl_ canon.
> 
> Thanks to Elke Tanzer and mercuriosity for the beta.

When Bootstrap Bill realized that he was no good to his family anymore, and that as long as he remained cursed he could never return home, something broke inside him. He hated Barbossa for it, and he hated Barbossa for killing Jack--for Jack had to be dead, marooned on a tiny island far from the usual trading routes.

He hated the rest of the crew as well, as they grew ever more depraved and inhuman. Perhaps the curse brought out their true natures; perhaps it was merely that cruelty seemed to make them feel almost alive again. And in Bill's unbeating heart, a fierce, cold desire to see them all suffer, forever, for what they'd done to Jack, for what they'd done to him, to everyone whose lives they'd touched, began to grow.

Barbossa was a man driven; he searched up and down the Mexican coast, throughout the Caribbean, for anyone who knew of the curse of the Aztec gold. It took him three years to find an old Indian shaman who claimed to know the answer.

Barbossa listened carefully, then gutted the shaman where he stood.

When they next made port, Bill sent one of the Aztec coins to his son in London.

Not long after that, Bill finally told Barbossa what he'd wanted to say from the first: that it had been pointless and wrong to maroon Jack, that they deserved to be cursed forever. Barbossa did as expected; he ordered to crew to bind Bill's hands and tied him by his bootstraps to one of the smaller cannons and threw him overboard. Now they'd never find the coin he sent to England. He'd destroyed his own chance for salvation, but they'd be in hell with him.

At least, he thought as he slipped beneath the waves, he'd done right by Jack at last.

* * *

After the initial shock, Bill wasn't terribly surprised that he didn't drown. The seawater soon softened his bonds enough for him to wriggle loose, and then it was a matter of moments to work free of his boots.

As he swam to the surface, he thanked God fervently that Barbossa's crew was not the most canny lot of men to sail the ocean.

By day he swam; by moonlight he walked.

Bill lost track of how many days it took him to reach shore. Weeks, perhaps. Months. He could not taste the salt of the sea, nor feel the burn of the sun or the slap of the waves against his body. He did not need rest, nor food, nor drink, although he burned with thirst and hunger.

He knew he was close to shore when a shark began circling him at a distance. He smiled grimly at it and kept swimming. The curse seemed quite adept at keeping him in one piece, but he wasn't sure how it would take to him being eaten by a shark.

The shark unwisely attacked at night, only to get a mouthful of bone when the moon came out from behind a cloud. Bill's arm should have shattered, but it did not, and the shark swam away.

Bill did not see it again, but he followed a bale of sea turtles until he reached a deserted cove. Another time, he would have enjoyed its beauty, and the fruit and fresh water it offered.

Now he was merely glad to be done with swimming for a time.

* * *

For eight years, maybe more, Bill lived in a little driftwood shack in the cove. He carefully marked the cycles of the moon, and stayed inside on moonlight nights. If he couldn't quite pretend he was alive, he at least did not have to remember that he wasn't every time the moon shone.

He carved little wooden birds, and braided seashells into his hair until it clashed lightly with every movement. It gave him something to do, but eight years was a long time, especially when one didn't sleep. Near the end he thought he would go mad with boredom.

And then one day Bill stepped in an anthill. He swore at the fiery pricks of pain, then fell to his knees in the sand and wept with gratitude. How or why he knew not, but the curse was broken. It no longer mattered to him that this meant the _Black Pearl_ 's crew was free as well; he could again taste the salt spray, and feel the wind at his back and the sun on his face.

He thought of his family then; if they were still in England he had to reach them, tell them he was alive. It took him a year to find passage off the island with some smugglers and six months more to reach England, by a roundabout route that took him to India and the Ivory Coast.

Mary had died of the pox, a neighbor told him when he reached London, and little Will had gone as a ship's boy on a vessel bound for Jamaica years ago. No one knew what had happened to him.

Bill returned to Tortuga. There was nowhere else left to go.

* * *

He had not expected to find anyone he knew in Tortuga. Pirates tended to have short careers. He expected to see Jack Sparrow least of all.

They stared at each other for a moment, both wide-eyed and mute. Then Bill said, "Jack."

"William?" Jack's eyes were dark and fey as ever, and his voice cracked a little as he said Bill's name. He looked at Bill as if he were a ghost -- perhaps he was to Jack -- and discreetly made the horn sign.

"Aye." Now Bill's voice cracked. There was a good three paces between them; not far, but to Bill Jack seemed as far as the horizon.

"You're not dead."

"Nor are you." Bill finally managed to step forward, reach out and touch Jack's cheek with a hand that trembled too much for his liking. "How?"

Jack shrugged. There were more beads in his hair now than before, and the coins were Chinese, not the Spanish silver they had been when Bill had last seen him, but he still wore the stingray spine Bill had used to give him his sparrow tattoo. "'M Captain Jack Sparrow. Didn't I tell you it'd take more than marooning to take me down?" He spoke more quietly than the words deserved, without the usual glee he reserved for such lines; he spoke as though what he meant was not what he said.

Bill rolled his eyes anyway. "That one's getting a bit worn, you know."

Jack shrugged again, and a hint of a smile danced around the corners of his mouth. "It's served me well." He paused. "I've seen your boy, Bill."

Bill's heart leapt in his chest. "Where? Is he well?"

"Last I left 'im, he was in Port Royal, married to a fine lass and makin' swords. Good man." Jack grinned. "Like his father."

"Christ, look at you," Bill said softly, putting his hands on Jack's shoulders. "You don't look a day older."

"Alcohol," Jack said, very seriously, his eyes wide and guileless. "It's a preservative. I'm pickled in rum, you know."

Bill laughed, a bit rustily, and crushed Jack to his chest, ignoring Jack's muffled yelp. "It's good to see you again, Jack," he said into Jack's hair.

"And you, William," Jack said softly. "Very good."


End file.
